Fire the governor.
Their absence opens the sky.
It's fun to watch a city burn
but harder to live in ruin
while smoke reds the eye.

But those tears seduce, polymorph loneliness into a haunted lament.
A scream, night scare, the living scene of reality partitioned to your playground.
Becoming the butchered muse and mutilated artist both to savor the drama.
Every line of thought, silver. Moon kissed weaving to cement your ascent,
but razor thin cuts prove your web is the pup'teer's performance.
You, the doll to your unbridled mare, nighting your race to a fall. 

Reclaiming midnight one bellowed "fuck" at a time.
Coffee or gin, you've chosen your tonic,
to stave off sleep with a crafter's need.
Unlocked and worn wild, past smiles,
past dread, past all the fuckers still
yammering in your head. Undead,
but unrequited, no quieting comes
from the paint splatter or groans.

A toilet bowl dyed by your veins.
A crow's claw fraying the lens.
A rooster caw begging the end
of insomnia, but sun colors your shades.
There's no grave til the fae shake
is honored in full glorious quake
of your soul long since denied
the healthy outlet you once liked.

But the choice for a mind freed
smothered every pragmatic bent.
Your last rational choice spent
on sustaining a season of infestation,
the pest, your very own drive to be more
than that worthless bore you observe
in the mirror. Pain has taken over
where preservation once implored
you to brush teeth and talk clean.

Now a zombie, your mind an echo
of the person your once despised.
Loved ones realize your spark
has been given to years of art.
And though your soul was manifest
all minds are too busy to bear witness.

Heed this warning,
of the muse's allure.
She will kiss your heart electric
but fuck your life bare.
In her one tiny outlet,
you may scream for help
but loud as you shout it,
you will collect dust on a shelf.